


Feathers

by Potato (nerdclubcosplay)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: AAAAAAAAAAAA I'M NOT CRYING YOU'RE CRYING, Angst, Background body image issues, I can either see it as barely post-game or way in the future when they're older, I can write graphic violence if you want, I literally hate myself for writing this, M/M, MALIK DESERVED BETTER, Malik hates himself, Malik just wants his arm back guys, Minor Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Poor Altaïr is so confused, Post-Game(s), Sadness, Suicide, The violence isn't really graphic but there's blood, There really isn't a set time for this, body image issues, trigger warning: suicidal thoughts, trigger warning: suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 10:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13808877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdclubcosplay/pseuds/Potato
Summary: Malik doesn't want to sit around all day and hand out feathers, he wants to take those feathers and soak them in the blood of his enemies again. Altaïr is living out his dream while he sits and logs every kill. Maybe he can take one last feather...





	Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed the tags, here's a big ol' trigger warning for suicide!

     Malik watched intently as Altaïr wiped off his hidden blade. He glanced at his own stump of an arm and grimaced, trying to push his upsetting memories back where they came from. For his own good, and on the not-subtle suggestion of the Creed, he hadn’t worn his blade much since the accident.

     Altaïr didn’t seem to notice the gaze of his friend, too absorbed in his dutiful cleaning. For a while, he’d grown lazy, and the edges of his blade were starting to show it. When Malik started to notice, he realized he’d better get on that or risk angering him. It wasn’t until the night before that the other dark-haired man said anything out loud, though.

     He’d really tried to clean it before, he just didn’t have the means of getting the long-dried blood out of the nicks from where he’d accidentally hit the metal against rocks. Malik offered to help him. He wasn’t sure why, maybe the quieter Assassin had just been longing for the weight of deadly metal in his hands again. Altaïr wanted to believe that Malik cared about his well-being, but he knew well enough that that was wishful thinking.

     “Altaïr, you’ve been wiping that spot for five minutes, I think it’s clean,” Malik said.

     The Assassin nearly jumped at Malik’s sudden acknowledgement of his presence. He’d completely ignored him when he dropped in, so he figured that he was mad at him for some reason or there were maps that required his undivided attention and wouldn’t speak to him at all. Sheepishly, he turned the bracer with his blade attached over and began to scrub at the inside.

     Malik sighed and pushed his work to the side of his desk, pulling out another leather-bound book to scribble in for a moment before glancing back up at the man sitting on the floor across the room. Altaïr didn’t notice, as he was determined not to let Malik know he was on his mind.

     “Altaïr,” Malik said.

     Altaïr didn’t look up.

     “You heard me, now acknowledge me.”

     Altaïr looked up this time.

     “Come with me,” Malik said, without a wink of an expression on his face.

     “Where are we going?” Altaïr asked.

     “Bed. The sun has been dead a while, and I don’t wish to be writing a report on how you screwed up a job because you were tired,” he replied.

     Malik started to walk slowly towards the room he slept in, gesturing with his head for Altaïr to follow. The other man did so, but only after checking around to make sure none of the other Assassins were around to see.

     By the time he came in, Malik had finished struggling to get his coat off and was curled up on the blanket-covered pile of hay. His good arm was tucked under his head, and he was staring blankly at his stump again.

     “Malik…” Altaïr started cautiously.

     The other man gave him a death glare, then rolled over so Altaïr couldn’t see his missing limb. Defeated, Altaïr crawled into bed with him and sighed. Malik ran his fingers over the chest of the new occupant of his bed, stopping briefly to undo the straps on his armor and set the pieces aside. When he reached the gauntlet on his wrist, Altaïr stopped him.

     “No, I still want to keep it on,” he said.

     “To each his own, I guess. Do you have it locked?”

     Altaïr just nodded.

     Malik seemed satisfied and undid Altaïr’s hood before finally resting his arm over the man’s waist. Altaïr returned the favor, holding Malik against his body tightly. He’d never be sure if Malik actually liked it or not, as he wasn’t one to communicate, but he never told him to stop.

     Altaïr could feel that Malik’s muscles had started to atrophy, leaving him thinner than before with more pudge on his stomach and legs. While he found it endearing, Malik hated it. His one good arm wasn’t strong enough for him to climb well, and he knew he’d get winded quickly if some Templar decided to chase him. Once, he could have pulled up his shirt to show solid abs, but after being stuck in his hideout for so long, he’d lost them. It wasn’t like he didn’t work out, he did, but it wasn’t the same as being out with the other Assassins.

     “Goodnight, Malik,” Altaïr said.

     “And to you, Altaïr.”

     In a much quieter voice, after he was certain that Altaïr wasn’t listening to him anymore, Malik added, “Safety and peace…”

     Ten minutes or so later, when Altaïr was snoring and Malik was certain he wasn’t faking, he got up to grab a feather out of his desk. He had to fight with the drawer, as it had grown sticky lately, but eventually got his prize. Silently, he returned to Altaïr’s side.

     He sat down on the bed and gently laced his fingers with the other Assassin’s, glancing over the blade on his forearm. Slowly, he unlocked the spring mechanism and brought Altaïr’s palm to his chest. He was certain his pounding heart would wake the other man and he’d fail again, but Altaïr kept sleeping peacefully.

     Malik bit his lip and looked over at the feather he’d brought with him. Did it have to be done tonight? Should he spend another day trying to make everything feel better? Were his last words good enough? What would Altaïr do when he awoke to his lover dead in his bed?

     “Enough,” he muttered, silencing his thoughts.

     He took a deep breath and released Altaïr’s hidden blade into his chest, causing a pulsing wave of pain to fill his body. In agony, but not dead yet, Malik whimpered as he pulled the blade out and locked it again, leaving Altaïr’s arm at his side. His vision swam as he desperately reached for the feather, soaking it in his own blood and leaving it loosely clutched in his good hand as he fell back into the hay.

     Before he faded away, all he saw was Altaïr sitting up and staring in horror at his wrist, then the feather in Malik’s hand. The message was clear, and Malik was gone before he could see the other man take his own life in a similar fashion to how he’d taken his own.

**Author's Note:**

> hhHHHHNNNNNGGGGG  
> I need to stop writing angst, this is getting out of hand. *insert Harry Potter Puppet Pals here*  
> Thanks for reading, and all the usual things. Leave a Ma"like" if you enjoyed it. (Haha, I'm hilarious. I couldn't think of a kudos pun.)  
> This note is very messy, like my desk. I should clean my desk. (Can you tell I'm procrastinating on something?)


End file.
